


Silver Tongue, Golden Mouthpiece

by rosamynal, The Rose Mistress (Semilune)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Crack, Angst, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Crack, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Dreamsharing, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, FYI this is gonna get weird, Faustian Bargain, Gen, Humor, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Other, Pining, Rare Pairings, Rare Relationships, Temptation, but we'll keep it tasteful, probably?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 07:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21472624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosamynal/pseuds/rosamynal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semilune/pseuds/The%20Rose%20Mistress
Summary: ✦ SHADOWBRINGERS SPOILERS! Please do not read unless up-to-date on patch (5.0).Chapter One = T.o.C. Adult (18+) writing.✧Elidibus meddles with Ishgard.In the process, Ishgard meddles with Elidibus.❅ ☽ ✧ ☾ ❅Chapter One: "Shining Shadow"“Allow me to assist you, Lord Commander.  I could lift your sway above the Archbishop—above the Church itself—make you exemplar of Ishgard, grand and wholly unchallenged.”  He paused again.  “I could grant you clout to rival the Warrior of Light.”-★ Rating subject to change, eventual smut.  Multi-POV likely. AU shenanigans, especially involving the Unsundered, Aymeric, and Estinien.  Angst and humor and probably pining.  Relationships and unusual pairings will develop, and they may develop unexpectedly.  You have been warned.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel & Elidibus, Aymeric de Borel & Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Elidibus, Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Elidibus & Emet-Selch, Elidibus & Lahabrea (Final Fantasy XIV), Lahabrea & Emet Selch
Comments: 23
Kudos: 31





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Born from (1.) the rarepair idea of Aymeric + Elidibus that struck me like a ton of glittering bricks last week, and (2.) the endless stream of beautiful ideas that flow from Rosamynal's brain crinkles. I am but the fingers through which this monster comes to life. Fully enabled, nourished, and and beta'd by my co-creator.
> 
> Now, then. Let's dig our teeth into this sweet, sweet concept.

☽** Foreword **☾

On Wednesday, the thirteenth of November, of this year 2019, a rarepair sprung, fully formed, into my mind. 

It was then fully enabled, nourished, and eagerly beta'd by my dear friend Rosamynal.

This is gonna be one glorious disaster.

Thank you, as always, for reading!

* * *

☙ **Table of Contents** ❧

* * *

❅ **Silver Tongue, Golden Mouthpiece **❅

  1. **Foreword & Table of Contents**  
You are here!
  2. **Shining Shadow**  
“Allow me to assist you, Lord Commander. I could lift your sway above the Archbishop—above the Church itself—make you exemplar of Ishgard, grand and wholly unchallenged.” He paused again. “I could grant you clout to rival the Warrior of Light.”  
  


* * *

❅ ☽ ✧ ☾ ❅

* * *


	2. Shining Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Allow me to assist you, Lord Commander. I could lift your sway above the Archbishop—above the Church itself—make you exemplar of Ishgard, grand and wholly unchallenged.” He paused again. “I could grant you clout to rival the Warrior of Light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in the middle of Heavensward, sometime before the Main Scenario Quest, "Into the Aery" ...

* * *

❅ ☽ ✧ ☾ ❅

The hiss of a viper, lurking and clever. The purr of a satisfied _cat_. 

“Lord Commander.”

So few times had he heard that deafening whisper; the crush of space itself, split open. But more often, he had glimpsed the tails of that white, pristine robe, vanishing behind the reach of the Archbishop's seat. Still a mere handful of instants, to be sure—too few to deem him any audience to the Ascians. 

Too few to compare to the Warrior of Light.

But he knew _enough_. He knew the name of his caller; could foretell his foul intent.

He kept his shrewd blue eyes fixed on his unending sea of papers. For a moment, nothing swelled between them but silence; the rough scratching of the quill as he tracked a shining swath of ink: 

_Aymeric de Borel, Lord Commander—_

“Elidibus,” he said blandly, at last acknowledging the Ascian. “To what, or _whom,_ do I owe the singular distinction of your shining shadow on my doorstep?”

A low, soft chuckle rolled from the Emissary. 

Aymeric was reminded of deep, still waters, the kind sometimes veiled by thin ice. 

_Otherworldly._

“Doubtless you guess my objective,” said the masked ambassador. His voice was careful, a mild smile made sound. His robes, wrought of some fell, eldritch cloth, swished in meek whispers on the floor. 

Otherwise, as the creature moved, be was unnervingly quiet.

Aymeric did not deign to look up from his desk as his uninvited guest drifted ineffably closer. “Aye,” he finally replied. He could not deny it. He squinted as he reviewed the next writs-and-summons. After a pregnant delay, his nib scratched his name and title across the footer. He pressed his lips together as he let the ink dry; crisply filed it in the outgoing stack. “As you doubtless fathom my answer.”

Elidibus chuckled again. In this instant, he was a worldly being. Aymeric could _feel_ him loom to flank his shoulder. But even as the mass of the Ascian’s frame was palpable, _corporeal_, something about him felt _off_. Unusual, in a way that made small hairs prickle at the back of Aymeric’s neck, the nerves in his spine start to tingle. 

“Curious.” Elidibus continued in the same still tenor. Aymeric knew that tone for what it was—painstakingly measured, rationed out—picked and portioned particularly for his listener. 

Aymeric knew that voice, for he used that voice as well.

“Curious that a man of your station would flout my guidance, ere it is properly offered.”

_Slow, steady breath through the nose. Cool countenance; no emotion—_

_None that shows—_

“My station is merely a tool,” said Aymeric softly, avoiding visual contact. “An instrument employed for the betterment of Ishgard, composing a future unblighted.” He rifled through a bloated folder, yet untouched; fought the urge to sigh. “To the best of my awareness, our goals are not _entirely_ in alignment.”

“Perhaps not,” Elidibus allowed. “In the faraway end. But for the time being, an _unblighted future_ is indeed my intention. Our causes could be, temporarily, entwined.” Another hush between them, gravid with unspoken guarantees. “Allow me to assist you, Lord Commander. I could lift your sway above the Archbishop—above the Church itself—make you exemplar of Ishgard, grand and wholly unchallenged.” He paused again. “I could grant you clout to rival the Warrior of Light.”

Aymeric felt his brow crease and tense—felt enticed to _look at him_—but he quelled it. 

_Transcend his wretched temptation. Temper your zeal, Borel, to circumvent fanaticism—_

But the offer to cross that line—

How long had he yearned for something, _anything_, to grant him such power? 

To erase him of fatal shortcomings—

_‘Twould be fatal to accept him._

“My sway is lofty enough,” he said calmly, replenishing his ink. _Dip, tap, scratch—_ A dryness entered his voice, flat and ironic. “But do accept my thanks for your most generous offer.”

Elidibus chuckled again. “At your insistence,” he hummed.

Several ticks of tense silence. As Aymeric read through another document, signing it at length, the verve beside him scrunched and flickered. The Lord Commander wet his lips. “Do you await my dismissal?”

A feeling like a sigh, rather than the sound of one. “Mark my words,” Elidibus promised. “I will find the crack in your façade. I am well-acquainted with wearers of masks.”

“As am I,” Aymeric contended, finally looking up into the red-hidden stare of his guest. 

A crackle of energy seemed to flit between them. Neither flinched.

“We will meet again,” Elidibus pledged.

“Little do I doubt it,” Aymeric confessed.

A moment longer of standoff. Then a gasp of velvet darkness rippled around the white-robed Ascian, a miasma muted and smothering. Elidibus took a step back and vanished inside it.

Static swarmed the air. Aymeric’s hair stood on end. He took a breath and smoothed down upturned curls and wisps; dragged a palm through to tame the dishevelment. Tiny jolts of levin bit at his fingertips, and it was his turn, then, to sigh. 

_Well. _

If the Ascian made good on his threat, this would, almost assuredly, be a very fine mess.

* * *

“Oh, _Elidibus_,” groaned Emet-Selch. He sluggishly slouched against the suggestion of an armchair, shaped from dark crystal in the Chrysalis. “Why do you meddle with_ Ishgard?_ Has Lahabrea not done _enough already?_”

“Ishgard is ripe with possibilities,” came the reason. Then a heavy exhalation. The Emissary lifted a hand in reflex to pinch between his brows; dropped it almost at once. “Do not attempt to convince me you take a vested interest in my activities,” he muttered. “Unless, of course, you mean somehow to arbitrate.”

The other waved a bored hand. “By all means,” he drawled, quite resigned. “Do whatever you please. I have ample precedent to trust _your _judgment.” His black robes crinkled as he sank into the hard seat, the set of his mouth very tired. “But when Lahabrea sticks his nose in it again—as he is wont to do—you can hardly come mewling to me.”

The Emissary’s lips stretched into a grimace. “If I have need of your assistance, I will seek it.”

Emet-Selch grunted and rolled his eyes. “Marvelous,” he huffed. “But do _try_ to spare me—unless, of course, the fireworks are sufficiently exciting.”

“Rest assured that if there are fireworks,” Elidibus muttered, very stiffly, “You will swiftly be invited.”

* * *

“An _Ascian_ engaged you in palaver?”

Estinien howled loudly before the other could answer.

In lieu of speaking over the thunderous mirth, Aymeric collated a disarrayed treatise; waited for the braying to cease. “You laugh as though the notion is unheard of,” said the Lord Commander, stacking the papers together, tapping them tightly on the desk. He raised his eyebrows as he studied his dearest, most frustrating friend.

“Not _unheard of_,” Estinien argued. His armor made a harsh grating noise as he leaned against the wall, propped up by a scatter of midnight-black tines. These days, he rarely bothered with removing his helmet, even inside the Congregation—as though he expected to engage in a scuffle any instant. “Merely bewildering. What manner of boon could it hope to gain, by consorting with _you?”_ A guttural scoff. “Surely such beings have the foresight not to tarry with _Aymeric de Borel_, paragon of _virtue unspoiled.”_

Aymeric felt his expression deaden. He debated denying Estinien the pleasure of a response, but took a breath regardless. “Aptly, ‘twas the one they call Emissary.”

“Elidibus, aye?” 

“You know him by name,” Aymeric noted, almost surprised. But Estinien had the nose of a bloodhound; knew how to root out information, quickly and efficiently. At times it was disturbing.

Said hound shifted his weight and scoffed again. “Our favorite Hero _enlightened me,”_ he proffered dimly.

_Of course_. His comrade’s partnership with the Warrior of Light grew stronger by the day. Aymeric chuckled. “Perhaps Elidibus lacks such helpful companions,” he suggested, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Or,” Estinien grumbled, cocking his chin, “Perhaps even _ancient beings of malice_ suffer their share of harebrained shortsightedness.”

“Nothing is impossible,” Aymeric permitted, organizing another pile of wayward documents. “Though, in the case of this individual, I highly doubt it.”

Estinien snorted. “You respect it,” he observed. “This _Emissary_.”

“Respect is my sharpest armament,” came the counter, along with a stern, pale glare. “And essential for tactful relations.”

“Tact,” barked Estinien, “Was never my strong suit.”

That made Aymeric laugh. “No indeed.” He grinned to himself and shook his head as he capped his inkwell; as he rearranged his quill in its stand. “You have ever been the opposite of _tactful_, my dear Estinien.” He nudged the piles of paperwork into a more precise arrangement, sank back in his chair, and took a hard breath.

“_Finally_.” Scraping and grinding as Estinien launched himself from the wall. The plates of his drachen mail clattered as he prowled over, jerking his chin at Aymeric’s desk. “You seem to be unshackling yourself,” he observed, prodding the corner of the tabletop with the bend of his knee. “Care to join me for an ale?”

“Aye,” Aymeric sighed, stretching to his feet. His joints creaked and he winced.

“Maybe two or three?”

He wrapped himself in cloak and scarf and let his eyes twinkle at the other. “Five, more like.”

Aymeric moved a step closer, and Estinien unclipped his helmet—hooked it under an arm specifically to leer down through long tangles of salt-and-silver. Ever the merest mite taller. “You drink five and I leave you behind,” he warned, shoving back his rumpled hair. “Let the barmaids peel you from the floor.”

Comfortably shoulder to shoulder, they started for the door. Aymeric plucked the bite from his words ere he spoke them. “At once you would invite me to indulge, yet abandon me to retch by my lonesome?” 

It was said in jest, despite the unmistakable double entendre.

Estinien scowled at him. “Indulge in _moderation_.”

“So says lawlessness incarnate,” Aymeric drawled.

Estinien elbowed him, plate mail blocked by layers of cloak and fleece and chain. “So the cenobite threatens _transgression._”

“So the sinner starts a sermon,” lashed the silver tongue.

“So the hermit hungers to _harangue—_”

“The hermit thirsts for a drink and a companion to rely upon,” said Aymeric stoutly.

Estinien grumbled bitterly under his breath. 

Even as he split away to move faster, he spoke in a voice like smoke and gravel, so quiet it was near to a whisper. “You know well I would not _forsake you_,” he yielded, stalking promptly for the exit. A stream of curses started pouring from his lips. “Bloody blue browbeating _Bastard—”_

Aymeric smiled smugly to himself. 

* * *

He set his book on the nightstand and used his fingers to snuff out the candle.

Darkness filled the room, along with the fragrance of wax and smoke. Aymeric breathed deep of it; closed his eyes against the dimming flickers of the hearth. Another day finished; another evening begins. Another endless thread of tasks stretched ominous before him, awaiting his attention on the morrow.

_Rest._

The scent of ale lingered on his skin as he sank back against the give of his pillows.

_Would that I could rest with—_

A heavy sigh pressed at his lips as he wrestled the urge to _imagine_—stifled the ghosts of wild whims and daydreams—choked the impulse to delve back to wants neglected, thoroughly muzzled, all but forgotten.

His time was too precious, too _limited _to focus on _that._

Heavy eyelids. Heavier bones. Flesh too weary to fight for what it desired.

_For the best._

Slowly, inevitably, he sank to sleep.

* * *

_Lord Commander …_

A whisper pressed at his ears.

_Ser Aymeric de Borel— _

The voice was cold and unfamiliar, and Aymeric was _exhausted_.

_I could soothe your pain …_

Pain?

It was not pain he felt. Not _truly._ Only enervation—

_Let me relieve you of anguish. You need only invite me …_

I am not a fool. Not fool enough to welcome mysterious ministrations—

_Long have you denied yourself …_

So it must be. For the sake of—

_Ishgard?_

Ishgard. Myself. A brighter tomorrow—

_For Ishgard. For tomorrow._

Something that felt like a scoff, dark and bitter inside him.

It did not belong to Aymeric, and yet it was unbearably _familiar_.

_You suffer, so righteous, so selfless._

Far from either—

_Nay! Why are you so undeserving of solace and pleasure?_

I—

_You, who struggles so sincerely on behalf of many others?_

I only do what is honorable, _just—_

_How many of them would do the same in your stead?_

They—

His heart fluttered and faltered.

It matters not what they might do in my stead—

_Sooner or later, you will meet your earthly end. Do you not deserve your share of mortal indulgence?_

To indulge too much, too often, would be reckless—

_And what is one reckless moment, for a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders?_

He had to admit, it was a fair show of convincing—

But no.

The cares of the world were never mine to shoulder.

Only Ishgard. Only goals gladly set; sights so willingly centered—

_Oh, Aymeric. There must be something you desire for yourself._

Involuntary, the faces that flashed to the forefront of his mind.

Deep ties, hair of salt-and-silver, voice that rattled his bones, bid him to shiver—

Eyes of a Warrior fixed on the line of the horizon, ready to mold the future by his side—

_Ah_.

Pay them no attention—

_Unsurprising, but useful, nonetheless._

A nameless panic swelled within him, even as nothing but darkness stirred without.

I beg you—

_Fear not, Lord Commander. I would never use your secrets against you._

Impossible to believe—

_Hush. Rest. Let your dreams take wing._

Something warm and heavy, sinking in a haze.

Dishonest, deceitful; not to be trusted—

_I never lie—_

And sepia overtook him, and he was drifting, floating, fading away.

* * *

Emet-Selch wheezed as Elidibus grabbed him by the back of his cloak, unhooding him.

The Chrysalis pulsed as the two unsundered Ascians faced each other, bristling. Energy throbbed from Elidibus in waves. “You would lecture me for meddling, and then _meddle in my affairs yourself?_”

“Oh, _unhand me, _you moralizing cretin,” grumbled the other, smoothing back a stray white lock of hair. He readjusted his mask.

“_Moralizing?_” Elidibus seemed to swell with a breath.

“_Fine_,” sighed Emet-Selch. “_Sanctimonious._”

That was clearly no better. 

Elidibus trembled with something like rage, and his colleague slouched in answer. 

“I was trying to _help_,” the Architect insisted. “Placing the rook a little closer to the bishop—so to speak.”

Something that was almost a huff of frustration from the Emissary, quickly suppressed. “Whatever happened to _spare me?_”

Emet-Selch grinned and shrugged. He hooked the black cowl back over his head. “Fond as I am of sleeping,” he provided, “One sometimes craves a midnight snack.”

Elidibus hardly bothered stifling his groan.

“What have you done to ripple his indifference?” A deeper, haughtier voice pierced the darkness. Architect and Emissary turned to find the Speaker, stepping through the rift to join them.

“Ah.” Emet-Selch, his voice completely colorless. “Lahabrea. How pleasant.”

“Leave me to manage my business myself,” Elidibus said, low and almost menacing. “Both of you.”

Lahabrea shrugged. “Your business frankly bores me,” he declared. Emet-Selch laughed, wetting his lips, and Elidibus jerked his chin in warning. Tension crackled in the air between the two, and then between the three again as Lahabrea faltered. “Must I guess at what transpired?”

“He interfered with my preparations.” Elidibus, straightening his robes.

Lahabrea feigned surprise. “Our beloved Architect? _Sticking his nose in a blueprint?_ Never.”

“Pot. Kettle.” Emet-Selch pretended to search for the word, tapping his chin. “Hm, yes. _Black._” A whorl of darkness blossomed around him as he sank through a tear in the rift, escaping somewhere else.

Elidibus and Lahabrea stared at each other in silence.

“Well?” The Speaker, nodding to where the third had vanished. “I presume whatever _adjustments_ he made can be fixed.”

“They can,” Elidibus confirmed, but something in his voice was half-hearted. _Begrudging_.

“They can,” Lahabrea repeated. “But you see some way by which they can be harnessed.”

Elidibus rarely admitted Lahabrea was right. But in this case, the cogs were turning—and a soft, long-suffering sigh was slipping past his stiff-set lips. “We shall certainly see.”

❅ ☽ ✧ ☾ ❅

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hefty kudos to the book club for enabling this.
> 
> If you enjoyed anything in particular, have a prompt, or otherwise wish to comment, please leave some tasty feedback!


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